12:00 AM The building creaked like an old lung drawing breath. The fan rattled weakly on the desk, the only constant sound in the security office. Minho leaned into the monitor glow, skimming the cameras—empty tables, forgotten party hats, posters peeling off the walls. Everything looked dead, but he knew better.

On the party room camera, a figure stood by the arcade machines. Han. Oversized cap striped in red and blue, porcelain face painted with a childish grin too wide to be innocent. In his left hand, the deflated balloon dangled like a tether to something rotten. His right hand was hidden behind his back.

But it wasn’t the grin or the balloon that made Minho freeze. It was the eyes.

Too big for his face, freakishly wide and glossy, like glass marbles shoved into a doll’s head. They looked almost wet, catching the dim party lights in a way that made them shimmer unnaturally. The pupils didn’t sit still—they dilated and contracted, twitching as if they were trying to adjust and see through the lens. For a split second, Minho swore Han wasn’t looking at the camera at all. He was looking at him.

They should’ve been cute, in a doll-like way—round, bright, almost childlike. But they stared too long. Too directly. That “innocence” dragged on until it curdled into something uncanny, like a puppy’s gaze stretched into an unblinking eternity.

Minho leaned closer, throat dry. “The hell are you…”

The static warped for a breath, and when it cleared—Han was gone.

1:00 AM. The power gauge ticked lower with every slammed door and frantic flashlight beam. Minho’s pulse beat in time with the red warning lights.

Something scraped against the office door. Like fingernails—or tiny, plastic fingertips. A slow, polite knock followed. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Open up…” Han’s voice buzzed through the speaker, warped and childish. “I brought you something..I wanna play.”

Minho forced himself to glance through the office window. Han stood there, balloon bobbing against the ceiling, free hand now revealed—clutching a music box. The crank turned by itself, the song wheezing out in off-key notes that bent under static.

When Minho didn’t open the door, Han tilted his head all the way to his shoulder, like a broken toy. He stayed pressed against the glass, fogging it with his grin.